I let the lilies lie in their lilted lullabies,
of corners that cobwebs craved their cries,
When flowers fell in gardens not groomed,
and all creatures crawling craved rays of the moon.

While humans hindered lights that lit night’s street,
of no sheltering sidewalks solemnly did they greet,
On broken bottled pathways pondering in their time,
for all life’s troubles planted and left behind.
This poem can be read on poetry.com- http://poetry.com/poems/386984-Sprouting-

When, in hours I held my harms from action,
the winds of windows pulled me forward,
And asked my leaping loneliness to
plunge the night’s air affirmingly.

Refusing, I reeled and remorsed these retractions,
with hollowed heaving in gasping grief,
and my urn an ornament of deflection,
of dour delayments while I paused in patience.

Selfishly, suitors left me lorn in opaque oustings,
when lunar lights descended upon windows open,
and I lain in lost longing for all that is absent,
while windows wooed me closer to my eminent expiration.

If I etched these eliminates in so much
that they would abscond with your amnesties,
I would never more need numbing reminders
to fill the frequents of my misering in musings.

You not necessary ever in overplayed overtones,
A melody so memorable, yet unessential and uncouth,
incanting my opals of catastrophes laid on lenses,
In veils of venomocity they tryingly tear from their curtains.

And you there tall and triumphing so effortlessly endued
with muppetry you placed and played on my existence.
And me not questing for qualms favoured from you
or your ilk inclined to impress on my sordidly soured soul.

How patience pricks my fingers of valued virtue,
When calmness would not keep my callousness,
Like the urgency of time ticking on my clock chiming,
And you said cats could not companion me here.

So hours slide, slippery through these timbers,
As moments meander in and out of damp doorways,
Lighting left to luminosity of the sun and skies above,
And no showered love sits soundly in these window sills.

This alchemist of aspirated affection adorns her crown,
Of lost virtue, vanity, verbosity in a fashion firmly found,
With tiers of no triumph made in recourse, all remedies rued,
Her inheritance, a throne tyrannically trammelled of what’s accrued.